Remembering Michael Collins – A LUCKY man we were LUCKY to have

“Well, I kinda have two moons in my head, I guess, whereas most people just have one moon. I look at the moon, just like everybody else who’s never been there, and, you know, there it is, and I’ve always thought it was interesting, whether it was full or just a sliver, or what have you. But every once in a while I do think of the second moon, you know, the one I that I recall from up close, and it is kinda hard to believe that I was actually up there.”

Michael Collins speaking in the 2007 documentary In the Shadow of the Moon. It remains one of the greatest records of the Apollo programme, not least due to the wit, the poetry, and the sparkle of Collins’ interviews. It is also one of my favourite films, and Collins my favourite Apollo astronaut and a real inspiration, so the news of his death last week from cancer at the age of 90 was particularly sad.

Collins training for Apollo 11. Photo NASA.

Where's Runnicles goes to the movies - Rush and Star Trek Into Darkness

It's been a while since I wrote a film review, so why not two for the price of one. As a fan of Formula 1 racing and, normally, of Ron Howard's films, I've been very much looking forward to Rush, which chronicles the 1976 title fight between James Hunt for McLaren and Niki Lauda for Ferrari. In the end, while it is good fun (particularly for this McLaren fan to see them winning races after the season they've been having), it does not rank among Howard's best films nor even among the best Formula 1 films: the Senna documentary is both more powerful and better made.

The film's biggest problem is that it feels slightly disjointed. The first half is very entertaining and light hearted, then, following the dramatic events at the Nurburgring the tone changes dramatically. This section of the film is probably the best, and certainly the most compelling, though there are a number of moments that are not for the squeamish.

The two leads, Chris Hemsworth as Hunt and Daniel Brühl as Lauda, are both solid. Indeed Brühl's Lauda is a pretty uncanny impression. It helps, no doubt, that Lauda is still alive and cooperated, but that said, impression still seems the best word for it. Neither performance shows much depth beyond that, though in fairness this is down to Peter Morgan's script which isn't in the same league as his previous sporting endeavour The Damned United, nor his previous Howard collaboration Frost/Nixon. The supporting cast is even more thinly drawn and the likes of Steven Mangan and Julian Rhind-Tutt seem a little wasted.

The Muppets, or A Lesson in Having Faith

Many people coming to this film (or at least those bringing their kids) probably discovered the Muppets via the original television show. Although I can dimly recall the cartoon Muppet Babies when I was growing up, and the short-lived Muppets Tonight I first really remember getting the Muppets via two of their classic films – Muppet Christmas Carol (which a former flatmate used to invite friends around to watch before Christmas every year) and Muppet Treasure Island. I suspect this effected my taste in Muppets – I was fonder of Gonzo and Rizzo, and even more so of Sam the Eagle (who has a marvellous extended role in Muppet Treasure Island) than I was of those who were more central to the original show like Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzie and Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. All of the latter play a more central role than Gonzo, Rizzo (who is virtually invisible here) and Sam (who appears but rarely speaks) in this film. This reflects a broader return to the show's origins. In many ways this is an extended homage to the original show, but it is also a reminder both that these characters and some of the most central things they have said are timeless.

The central superb idea of this film is to establish a common humanity of humans and Muppets. Thus the key relationship of the film is between Walter (the new Muppet character) and his brother Gary (Jason Segal). On one level the connection Walter makes between himself and the Muppets when he first sees the TV show is perfectly obvious – he's a Muppet therefore of course he belongs with them, but it also captures an idea the Muppets have often stressed – that being a bit different from the herd, feeling a bit separate is nothing to be ashamed of – that you should in essence be happy in being yourself. By creating such a close human-Muppet relationship, this idea is rendered more powerful and poignant.

Monday Night Film Club - Source Code

I've been keen to see Duncan Jones's Source Code ever since I first heard of it, primarily because his feature debut, Moon, impressed me greatly two years ago.

Though it has a different writer (Ben Ripley), and Jones shares no story credit, the film has a lot in common with its predecessor. Firmly science-fictional, it focuses on a central character in a claustrophobic environment: both the eight minute segments of time he is forced to repeat and the capsule he finds himself in after each mission. Similarly, his interactions with Colleen Goodwin (Vera Farmiga), who might best be described as mission control, via only a computer monitor, have a certain something in common with GERTY. Chesney Hawkes' The One and Only, which features as Christina's ringtone, is also a nice callback to Moon. Here, as there, it has a wonderful dramatic irony, since, of course, he is not (though in a different way).

Collapse? I wish we knew

Collapse is a problematic film. On the one hand it raises important and interesting questions, yet on the other its many flaws undermine the message a more rigorous treatment might carry.

Described as a documentary, it is effectively eighty minutes of Michael Ruppert talking to camera (well, more or less: generally shot at an angle and poorly lit so his eyes are barely visible) interspersed with various archive footage, an ominous minimalist score playing in the background. He ranges broadly, from economics, to oil, to apocalypse, not always quite connecting the dots.

The A-Team, or back to the Saturday afternoons of my childhood

Daah da daah, da da dum, da da da da da daah, dah da da da dum.  If that means nothing to you, then the chances are that you should probably stop reading this review right now.  If, on the other hand, it conjures up childhood memories of huddling round the TV as the evening drew in on a Saturday and watching four implausible soldiers of fortune race around in a black van with a pointless red spoiler doing absurdly implausible things, making weapons out of farm machinery and cabbages, and generally saving the little guy, all the while evading vast numbers of military police, the thought of all of which makes you smile, then read on.

I've read various reviews slating this film, but they all seem to spectacularly miss the point.  Take, for example, the Scotsman's critic who maintained the original TV show had just one memorable character, a position somewhat undermined by the admission she'd only ever watched one episode.  The A-Team was stupid, it was mind in neutral time, sit back and enjoy the ride, and what glorious fun that ride was.  Director Joe Carnahan grasps this, and delivers a straightforward update in style.

The original crack military unit were convicted of crimes while serving in Vietnam and this is easily updated to Iraq.  Yes, the plot has been altered to revolve around stolen printing plates for $100 bills, but that is pretty similar to the original reason for their incarceration (a mission to rob the Bank of Hanoi).  The remainder of the film follows the team's efforts to clear their names.  From the opening moments, where the font on the screen is the same one from all those years ago, it is clear that we are in safe hands.

Aldeburgh 2010 - The Tenor Man's Story (or, they don't make 'em like that anymore)

"They don't make documentaries like that anymore."

And more's the pity, for that was our universal reaction as we left Aldeburgh cinema yesterday following a screening of Barrie Gavin's 1985 documentary The Tenor Man's Story.  Modern documentaries often seem to have rules that you mustn't hold a shot for more than twenty seconds, can't have talking heads and must be full of dramatic reconstructions.

Gavin's work, on the other hand, was simplicity itself, consisting of Peter Pears telling his life story, for the most part directly to camera, in his own words.  It had been edited from a longer interview conducted by Donald Mitchell, but for the most part the actual questions were unheard and unneeded, with only the odd brief narration to link the material.

To be sure, it wasn't all to camera: there were many evocative shots of Aldeburgh, especially the waves lapping up on the beach, and the Red House, but these all seemed appropriate.  So too the historical photographs, for example one of the cricket team he played on, which appeared and were held for a good long time as he discussed them.  So too music, which was well and subtly chosen to illustrate the compositions he was talking about.

Aldeburgh 2010 in brief - Music and the Brain & Festival Directors III

You can easily do too much in a festival, case in point, today sees Where's Runnicles attending a documentary film double bill at Aldeburgh cinema, a piano and violin recital of music by Britten and Knussen, and then later this evening a concert from Leon Fleisher and the Signum Quartet at the Maltings.  As such, in a slight break with the Where's Runnicles house style of long and rambling, we're going to try something different: a brief review (well, three brief reviews, taken together it's not all that brief).

 

Ravel's Brain

The first of a double bill, and part of the Music and the Brain series that runs through this year's festival, no doubt inspired by Fleisher's residency (indeed, the one film of the festival that I really wanted to see, concerning his return to two handed performance, was last week), Ravel's Brain was both disappointing and a missed opportunity.  From the outset, and the deliberately wobbly and out of focus passage through a cloister, it was clear that director Larry Weinstein rather fancied himself as more than a maker of documentaries.  So it was that we were treated to having Ravel's doctor sing to us about his symptoms.  There was also a lot of reconstruction.  This is not necessarily so bad in and of itself, especially if there is no real footage, however there was something dishonest about the way Weinstein put it together.  Some scenes were in colour, but others in grainy black and white so it appeared as though it was genuine footage of the composer.  However, once the same actors appeared in the colour footage the game was up.  The problem is that doing that then made one question whether what appeared to be letters from his friends, or other narration, might not be made up too.

The sad part was that the question of what exactly had been wrong with Ravel was clearly a fascinating one (to which we will likely never have the full answer).  What is more, a lot of the actual interviews, both with people who knew Ravel and with two neurosurgeons, were fascinating.  There is clearly room for an excellent documentary here but unfortunately Ravel's Brain isn't it.

Monday Night Film Club roundup - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (not for the squeamish), and more

It's been a while since the last monday night film club. Actually, there've been a couple that I haven't got round to writing up until now. What prompted me to do so was our first outing in over a month, for some not very light Swedish cinema.

 

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

I've been wanting to read Stieg Larsson's much talked about thriller for a little while now, in large part because it's been so much talked about and fairly well reviewed. I had hoped to get that done before seeing the film - I prefer to do things that way round - but in the end it was not to be.

While I was expecting some serious crime, I don't think I was ready for quite how gruesome a tale the viewer gets. Now, true enough, I probably wind up looking away from the screen more than most, but even so, the graphic scenes, particularly of sexual violence, are extremely unpleasant and difficult and troubling viewing. That said, they don't feel gratuitous either and they fit oddly well with the book's rather more appropriate Swedish title Men Who Hate Women, which really is what the story is about, rather than just a description of the title character.

The story weaves a complicated web of political intrigue as journalist Mikael Blomkvist, disgraced after losing a libel suit brought by a dishonest industrialist who has managed to set him up, is called in by Henrik Vanger, head of a wealthy industrial dynasty, to clear up the disappearance of his niece 40 years ago. He is assisted by the brilliant, dysfunctional, headstrong and traumatised young hacker Lisbeth Salander, the girl of the title.

Avatar - or, James Cameron steals another three hours of my life

I don't like greatest lists, as regular readers will know. Similarly, I don't like X is the worst [blank] of all time. That said, if one were assembly a list of the worst films of all time, Titanic would certainly make my cut. I can remember few times where I have been so bored or where I have cared so little about the characters. At the time one comedian described it along the lines of "My heart will go on, and on, and on, and on.... a bit like the [expletive deleted] movie!". If I'd been in the cinema I might have walked out, as it was I was in my room at university, but since my flatmate was also watching it (and more shockingly enjoying it), there was no escape without being very rude.

That said, James Cameron has made some decent films which are often great fun: True Lies is a work of genius, in my view; both the Terminator films a full of enjoyable carnage; the first couple of Alien movies have a lot going for them. A big new sci-fi flick should therefore be right up his street, especially given he's pioneered new production techniques, etc. That seemed to be a reasonable view to take. Not to mention the fact it enjoyed tremendous success at the box office and had won awards (though, of course, both those statements could equally be made of Titanic).

This is, I'm sure I have read, but cannot find a reference as I write this, a film that Cameron first conceived while at school. Certainly this is the only charitable explanation for why the dialogue feels like it was written by a twelve year old. Particularly in the opening section, as ex-marine Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) arrives on Pandora, it really is so cringe-worthily hackneyed and bad that it has to be heard to be believed. This is a film screaming out for a competent script-doctor, though one wonders if even the likes of Joss Whedon could save it. More than that, though, the dialogue is loaded with exposition, frustratingly so as, in scenes staged to catch the audience up, characters explain to each other things that they surely already know, and know that each other know. Then, to make it topical, there's a sentence in Sully's opening narration about the recession that's hit earth which appears to have been tacked on with all the subtlety of a blue catering plaster slap bang in the middle of somebody's forehead.

Film review - Alice in Wonderland

Alice in Wonderland 3D, dir. Tim Burton, Walt Disney Pictures, cert. PG, on general release.

Alice in Wonderland feels like a film made by one of its own characters: amiably quirky, visually splendid and unusual, but characterised by naivety and some very eccentric choices. Oddest and most ill-advised of all of director Tim Burton’s decisions has to be his attempt to position the film as neither an adaptation nor continuation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice stories, but as an uneasy halfway house, a sequel that doesn’t know that it’s a sequel. The adventures from Carroll’s books are dismissed in the opening scenes of the film as nightmares experienced by the young Alice. Then sixteen years later, running away from her engagement party, she finds herself once again in Wonderland. We’re then treated to a mix of scenes straight from the original (the whole drink me/eat me episode is lifted more or less directly from the page) and a new plot based around Carroll’s nonsense poem Jaberwocky. It makes for a bit of a mess, and the resulting structure is lacking in any tension whatsoever; we have ninety minutes of being asked ‘Can Alice rise to the challenge’ and ‘Were those dreams real?’ before we discover – who’d have thought it? - that yes, Alice can rise to the challenge and those dreams were real after all.

Coupled with this narrative tedium is the unfortunate truth that this Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is simply not an interesting character. Actually, simply is the operative word, since in an effort to preserve the naive curiosity of Carroll’s books, Burton has created a 19-year-old character who acts with the intelligence of a slow 10-year-old. When her mother complains of having only white flowers, Alice’s suggestion that she paint them red is meant to be a charming reference to the Queen of Hearts doing just this in the source material, but instead it just hints at a troubling history of mental retardation. Consequently, it’s hard to really care about her predictable journey of self-discovery.

Knowledge is the Beginning..... The Rest is Noise

One of the more powerful concert experiences I've had over the years was the visit of Daniel Barenboim and his West-Eastern Divan Orchestra to the Edinburgh festival in 2005. Sadly, back then I didn't review in nearly so much detail as I do now, so my recollections are a pale shadow of the event.

For those who've not come across them, this a project co-founded by Barenboim and his friend, the late Palestinian intellectual Edward Said, to bring together young musicians from across the Middle East to make music together. It's not a completely novel concept, Claudio Abbado's Gustav Mahler Jugendorchester was founded along similar lines, but intractable though the European cold war dividing line was, across which it drew its members, it isn't really comparable. Such an endeavour would be well worth supporting whatever the musical merit. All the better, then, that under Barenboim they rank amongst the finer youth ensembles, having produced concerts and CDs which more than hold their own against professionals.

Paul Smaczyn's film, Knowledge is the Beginning....., charts the orchestra's history, from its inception during Weimar's year as European Capital of Culture in 1999, through to its groundbreaking concert in Ramallah in 2005. There is no narration, save the odd caption. Instead the story is told through the words of the participants, principally Barenboim and, earlier in the film, Said, but with plenty of contributions from the orchestra themselves. It is intercut with scenes of them rehearsing, or playing games in between, some fine concert footage and Barenboim's and the orchestra's travels.

The extraordinary District 9, or Sharlto Copley was robbed

Every year at Oscar nomination time I usually discover at least one performance or film which has been disgracefully overlooked. This year is no exception. Where's Runnicles has to ask, how could Sharlto Copley (District 9) have been overlooked in the Best Actor category?

Last night Mr P came round for dinner, bringing with him the District 9 DVD. I was initially sceptical. I had a vague recollection of seeing a trailer many months ago which looked very bloody and violent and not my cup of tea at all. How wrong can you be....yes there is considerable violence in this film (some of it pretty horrifying) but all of it is essential to the story, and that story is compelling and very dark.

The film begins as a documentary detailing the arrival of a huge alien ship above Johannesburg twenty years before. We follow in snapshots the adaptation of the aliens to a district in the city which gradually becomes a slum walled off from the rest of the city. We see the rising distrust, disgust and ultimately hatred of the humans towards these arrivals, a developing feeling given added point by the South African setting and the film's careful mingling of white and black faces. This backstory is interspersed with 'footage' of Multi-National United workers as they prepare for a huge relocation operation – moving the aliens out of the city to a new purpose built camp (for which read concentration camp).

From the very beginning the film plays with the viewer's expectation. Utilising the documentary format to begin with builds up the sense of tension and unease. It is clear that something is going to go badly wrong but when it does it was certainly not what I had anticipated. Design is also key here, the aliens are distinctly unappealing in behaviour and appearance, which makes the evolution in relations, and the viewer's reactions to them, during the film the more striking. The special effects work should also be singled out. I don't know whether producer Peter Jackson offered director Neill Blomkamp any advice on the basis of his Lord of the Rings experience but the achievement has its parallels – the aliens are completely integrated into the environment – that is I never doubted for one moment that these races were interacting with each other – it was wholly, often terrifyingly, real.

However, at the centre of the film, is the already mentioned extraordinary performance of Sharlto Copley. Copley plays Wikus van der Merwe, the junior employee appointed by MNU bosses to manage the eviction of the aliens. The brilliance of Copley's performance lies in the layering: again and again as the film goes on another layer is stripped away – the character's evolution from junior bureaucrat with a Napoleon complex to tragic victim is utterly compelling even when the bloodiness was forcing me to hide my eyes. It is remarkable that this should be his first major film role.

It is not really possible to write much more without giving away the plot, and this is to my mind undoubtedly a film which it is better to come to cold. Suffice it to say this is a film asking important questions at every turn, about the limitations of our humanity, about how we treat the other among us, about how far we are willing to go in pursuit of what we imagine are our interests and what we are prepared to sacrifice to that end. Many of the answers suggested are profoundly unsettling. Yet there remains hope – not a sugary fantastical hope, but something hard won, fragile and very moving. In short, see this film.

Sherlock Holmes, or Guy Ritchie's triumphant Homage-a-thon

Rarely have I seen a film quite so replete with homages to the work of others as Guy Ritchie's new take on Sherlock Holmes. At times the viewer might be forgiven for thinking that he has wandered into one of Tim Burton's Batman movies, Young Sherlock Holmes (a film for which I must admit some affection), Doctor Who Victoriana (whether of Tom Baker or Sylvester McCoy vintage) or the Da Vinci Code franchise (I must admit I have never actually seen a whole movie from the last stable but judging by the trailers there seems to be some overlap). More distantly one can also glimpse echoes of other classics of the period adventure romp, the score occasionally sounds a little Pirates of the Caribbean and the ensemble is reminiscent of Indiana Jones. Why then, you may ask, should you bother going to see this film? Because despite these many influences it is hilariously funny, keeps you on the edge of your seat, boasts a superb cast and an excellent script (the latter a sad rarity in the film world and therefore the more deserving of praise).

It is the twin elements of very successful casting and scripting that make this film such a triumph. The script has been produced by no less than three writers (Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham and Simon Kinberg), none of whom seem to have done much in the way of films before if IMDB is to be believed. Yet the script shows no signs of the clunkiness one might expect from a multiple production. It is often very funny, but can be moving without tipping over into melodrama, and cleverly keeps you guessing about the key McGuffins of the plot – is Lord Blackwood (a suitably demonic Mark Strong) really achieving all his successes by black magic and is Holmes in some way implicated in the crimes. They are also extremely clever in their characterisation of Holmes: in place of Jeremy Brett's mordant figure, Robert Downey Jr gives us a master detective whose brain is forever working overtime and keeping him dangerously close to madness. This may not be completely Conan Doyle's creation but it is to my mind a successful re-imagining, true to much of the spirit of the original, rather than a travesty. Ritchie's direction persistently shows Downey uncovering clues, but these moments are submerged into other scenes, often through distracting dialogue from Watson, so that it really is a surprise (as it often is in the stories) when Holmes finally reveals how he has deduced various key points. The point of course is, as I seem to remember Holmes saying in at least one story, that most of the information is before our eyes, and if we had a mind like Holmes's we might see it.

Downey's partnership with Jude Law's Dr Watson is at the heart of the film, and is superbly brought off. From the very first moment we see them together, through all the twists and turns of the complex plot, they are completely believable particularly perhaps the exasperation which both use to cover how far they depend on each other. Rachel McAdams is suitably stunning as Holmes's love interest and intellectual match, and if the script does not always work so effectively for her as the others this is not her fault. Given that she is identified as Irene Adler, this is probably the point most likely to have Sherlockian purists up in arms. Yet A Scandal in Bohemia emphasises a kind of connection between her and Holmes, whom she does successfully outwit, so her role here is not so completely far-fetched. Also worthy of mention are fine turns from Eddie Marson (as Inspector Lestrade) and the marvellous Geraldine James, who is criminally underused as Mrs Hudson, an error one trusts will be rectified in the rumoured sequel.

To sum up, despite the occasional unconvincing bit of CGI (the fight on Tower Bridge at the end is particularly culpable) and the odd melodramatic turn of phrase, this is a rollicking good yarn, featuring a superb partnership of performances by Downey and Law. I look forward to the sequel.

BAFTA Nominations – Gentle analysis and very tentative predictions.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, James Cameron’s live action remake of Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest, aka lame CGI-fest Avatar, is top dog this year with a total of 8 BAFTA nominations. It undoubtedly deserves to win the Special Visual Effects award for mould-breaking work in that field, but it’s also fairly likely to clean up in all of the other technical categories – a shame, since its main competitor there, Neil Blomkamp’s intelligent and thrilling sci-fi drama District 9, is a much better film. And isn’t a remake of Fern Gully. Nevertheless, Avatar will probably walk away with Best Film and Best Director amongst its mountain of gold.

The most prevalent British film in the nominations list is An Education, which, though it hasn’t been a particularly visible force at the box office, is a compelling, funny and touching coming-of-age drama starring brilliant newcomer Carey Mulligan. And unlike many compelling, funny and touching coming-of-age dramas, it isn't a saccharine-powered schmaltz machine. Like Avatar, it’s managed to pick up 8 nominations, though one of these is the faintly patronising ‘Outstanding British Film’, and another is Best Make-up, which – whilst it’s very important to recognise the important work done by these skilled artisans etc. etc. – is never going to get the general public particularly fired up. Mulligan, I think, might have a fair chance of taking away the Leading Actress prize, although the likelihood is that Meryl Streep (Julie and Julia) will repeat her Golden Globe success. An Education has also provided Alfred Molina with a Supporting Actor nod, and this will be a category worth watching: he’s up against not only the terrific Christian McKay (Me and Orson Welles) but also the sublime Christolph Waltz, the smiling Nazi villain from Inglourious Basterds. Each of these chaps would be a worthy recipient of the gong, but my money’s on Christoph Waltz.

The Original Screenplay category is interesting. Alongside Up¸ Inglorious Basterds and A Serious Man – all of which are screenplays constructed with tremendous skill and originality, whether you love or loathe the final movies (and I love all three) – can be found Jon Lucas and Scott Moore’s The Hangover, which has to be the least original piece of writing to make it to the big screen last year. It’s unclear why anyone would want to nominate The Hangover for anything, but what little humour appeared in the finished product lay in performances; its clumsy structure, lame jokes and supermodel-thin characterisation deserve no plaudits. That’s right, British Academy, I called it like it is – wanna fight about it?

I haven’t seen Up in the Air, so I can only guess as to whether it’s strong enough to be a serious contender for Best Film, but I don’t think it will cause Avatar fans any concern. It could lead George Clooney to victory as Best Leading Actor, but I’m not in a position to speculate. I can only base my opinion on the trailer, which is awful. Or at least half of it is: in the first half it seems to be a smart, slick comedy, accompanied by a great soundtrack and George Clooney at his most likeably cool; the second half seems to be a humourless, schmaltzy TV movie. Watch it for yourself – the change happens at about 01:33.

I haven’t seen any films in the foreign language category, so umm... let’s move on.

It’s nice to see my two favourite films of 2009, In The Loop and Moon, get a couple of nominations each, though it’s frustrating they were buried in the subset of ‘British’ categories – you know, the remedial awards for those backwards little filmmakers without American money who’ve also – bless them – managed to come up with little films all by themselves... Both films can hold their own against Hollywood flicks, and inventing special categories so that Brits get take away something seems a touch odd.

Which brings me to a short coda on a not entirely unrelated topic: last night at the National Television Awards, Stephen Fry in America was crowned ‘Best Star Travel Documentary’. Now, Stephen Fry deserves many more awards than he could possibly have time to accept in his lifetime, but look at that title: Best Star Travel Documentary. This type of absurd specificity is only surely necessary if there’s also a gong for ‘Second-best Stationary Documentary Presented by a Minor Celebrity who Doesn’t Quite Qualify as a Star Yet’. But there isn’t. There isn’t even an award for plain old vanilla ‘Best Documentary’, a prize which, incidentally, Stephen Fry in America was also good enough to have won. Other peculiarities included the category of ‘Most Popular Talent Show’, and Ant and Dec’s winning of the highly distinct awards ‘Most Popular Entertainment Programme’ and ‘Most Popular Presenter of an Entertainment Programme’. The ‘Ant and Dec Award for Being Ant and Dec’ presumably went to Paul O’Grady. At least the BAFTAs haven’t yet become quite this silly.

Monday Night Film Club - Up in the Air

It's always interesting how many of the people on my friends Caroline and Sharon's mailing list a given film will draw. Typically the number hovers around four or five and on occasion (Seven Pounds) has dipped as low as two and climbed as high as eleven (Slumdog Millionaire). Actually, in point of fact, the record is thirteen for Juno, but that was before my time; however, it bears mention since director Jason Reitman is also responsible for Up in the Air. Add to which the fact that it stars George Clooney and it is unsurprising we numbered ten.

The premise is simple, George Clooney criss-crosses the country, resulting in a beautiful opening sequence of intercut aerial images of America that is arguably the highlight of the film, as a man who is called in to fire people so that bosses don't have to deliver the bad news. Ryan's sole ambition seems to be to get to ten million frequent flier miles, as only six men before him have done. In the process he has cut off friends and family and lives out of one small and expertly packed suitcase. This is highlighted by his motivational speaking sideline where, using the analogy of a rucksack, he explains how weighed down we are. Things are shaken up by the Natalie (Anna Kendrick) who thinks to save money by firing people by video chat. She is promptly tethered to him to learn the trade. Refreshingly, the romantic subplot one might expect to materialise between them never does. That instead comes from fellow frequent flier Alex (Vera Farmiga), and the pair hit it off from the very start, as they attempt to outdo each other with their loyalty cards. Ryan's pride at his black American Airlines card is particularly fine, as he explains it's graphite not carbon fibre (I'm assuming that the producers realise those are the same thing).

It's not quite a comedy though. That's not to say there aren't plenty of amusing moments, but they're mainly more chuckles than laugh out loud funny. Ryan's smugness at cutting queues due to his status is nicely done, and then beautifully followed by his comeuppance when, at the small wedding hotel, he isn't a member of their obscure scheme and must himself queue. Then there is the sublime irony of Natalie's boyfriend dumping her by text message.

Some of the emotional aspects seem contrived, especially when his sister's fiance gets cold feet and Ryan is inexplicably the only person available to talk him round, which he then does with remarkably little difficulty. Much more poignant is the gnomes subplot, a nice reference to Amelie, where the happy couple ask to have their cardboard cutout photographed in exotic locations. He picks Lambert International, St Louis, from where the wright brother and Charles Lindberg flew, he also dashes across the country to get a prized Las Vegas shot. Yet his sister barely acknowledges the pictures. The budding relationship between Ryan and Alex is much more satisfying for most of the film, as he starts to want a different kind of life, and the two actors have excellent chemistry on screen, though it is spoilt by its rather predictable conclusion. Indeed, the final few minutes wrap things up rather too neatly and quickly.

All the leads turn in solid performances, and there are some nice cameos to be spotted among the workers to be fired, such as J K Simmons. It's a diverting and enjoyable film, if one that leaves you somewhat unsatisfied and feeling no pressing need to see it again.

Film review - Nine

Nine, dir. Rob Marshall, The Weinstein Company, cert. 12A on general release.

Cinema and musical theatre can be uncomfortable bedfellows. Indeed, in the last decade we've endured such catastrophic train wrecks (I'm talking about you, The Producers, Phantom of the Opera, Rent), that one sometimes wonders if it's really worth trying. Beautiful, soaring poetry becomes cheesy twaddle when transferred to the screen, subtle theatre performers become hideous overactors in close-up, and a perfectly paced theatrical script can make for a tedious screenplay. And that's before you get to the seriously screwed-up stuff, like the sound of Pierce Brosnan singing.

Thankfully, Rob Marshall – director of 2003's solid cinematic rendering of Kander and Ebb musical Chicago – has a good feeling for the language of film, and once again proves himself a safe pair of hands with Nine, a worthy if not earth-shattering addition to the canon of film-musicals. Hardcore fans of the stage musical might be perturbed (well, actually they'll probably be apoplectic, the default setting for hardcore fans) to find that about half of Maury Yeston's original score has been excised, and the story jumbled about somewhat. It makes for better pacing, though, and just goes to show that a bit of careful butchery can be a lot more effective than slavish adherence to the original.


It's the mid-1960s, and Daniel Day-Lewis plays Guido Contini, a charismatic yet complex Italian film director who is suffering creative block just days away from beginning shooting on a new film. At the same time, he's having the sort of woman trouble you'd expect of someone so charismatic, complex and Italian. While he desperately tries both to write his script and to keep his wife (the excellent and lovely Marion Cotillard) from discovering his mistress (the marginally less excellent but even lovelier Penelope Cruz), he begins to conjure up visions. These fantasies of his dead mother, of himself as a young boy and of all the significant women in his life (each whom he idolises in a fairly creepy way), take the form of elaborate musical numbers. Here, Rob Marshall repeats his signature trick from Chicago, cutting between simultaneously unfolding parallel realities, one spoken and one musical, so that the drama never grinds to a halt to fit in a song.

It comes as no surprise that, throughout all this, Day-Lewis' performance is engaging and real, and he is able to make charming a somewhat unlikeable character. He brings genuine passion and energy to his singing, and if his voice isn't the most beautiful in the world, it's all the more compelling because of it. Indeed, acting trumps singing throughout the cast, and that's no bad thing.

The score itself is pleasant if unremarkable; only the cheerful anthem Be Italian (performed admirably by Fergie, with a surprisingly good full-chorus tambourine break) is really hummable. And the lyrics, whilst occasionally witty, are a little too on the nose for my liking.

Nine is an unusual musical, lacking the humour and vigour of Chicago, but at the same time not offering the psychological introspection of, say, Sweeny Todd either. I suspect it may have trouble finding an audience as a result. Where Mamma Mia recently had roaring success with menopausal women, who took their teenage daughters along for two hours of frothy escapist girl-power, Nine perhaps provides an opportunity for middle-aged dads to show their sons the lies, hypocrisy and barely concealed misogyny that make up a mid-life crisis: 'Look, son, this'll happen to you forty years, mark my... Oh my, isn't Penelope Cruz hot?'

VERDICT: Not exactly a toe-tapping triumph, but entertaining nevertheless.

Monday Night Film Club - Bunny and the Bull (and one exceptional film)

Last week I we saw the trailer for Bunny and the Bull and my overriding reaction was: hmmmm. This was a film I was in no hurry to see. Of course, one of the joys of Monday Night Film Club is that it means I go to see things I wouldn't otherwise bother with. Sometimes that can be bad, other times it can be exceptional. This falls into the latter category.

On a basic level, it is a road movie, though to call it that would be a bit like saying Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a martial arts movie or that Blade Runner has lots of robots in it: it would completely miss the point. Partly, this is because for the duration of the film Stephen, superbly and sensitively played by Edward Hogg, barely steps outside his house. Instead, though flashback, we get a journey as much through his mind as through Europe.

As the film opens, the camera winds its way through the house, credits appearing on household items such as the old fashioned rotary dial of the telephone, the tube of toothpaste, the paste itself writing in the sink, and so on. This meticulous attention to detail carries through the film as we meet Stephen, an obsessive-compulsive agoraphobic who between filing his dental floss and eating the same vegetable lasagne for lunch each day has hid himself from the world.

It is one year since he has ventured outside, and suddenly his neatly ordered life comes crashing down as he discovers the mice have been at the whole of his stock of ready meals. This launches a voyage through the mementos of his European tour with his friend Bunny (and equally superb Simon Farnaby). On one level, it's somewhat unclear how two such different people have come to be such close friends; on another, their relationship never feels unnatural.

The moment the narrative ventures outside the house, we leave any semblance of the ordinary. Instead, our characters inhabit animated or almost cardboard like sets, giving the film a magically surreal quality not a million miles away from the likes of Gilliam, Kaufman or Burton.

Gradually, we learn why Stephen is now a prisoner of his own mind. Writer and director Paul King expertly dips in and out of flashbacks, using a snowdome to transport the viewer to a mountaintop Swiss chalet, taking us to a fairground inside the mechanism of a clock. At times the transitions from the house to the recollections call to mind Joel tumbling through his memories in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or the dream sequences that make up perhaps my favourite episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Restless, the season four finale). Similarly he knows how to hold onto an exquisite moment, such as when Stephen nearly kisses Eloisa (a fine performance by Veronica Echegui) in an archway in some unnamed and unidentifiable Spanish town. It is simply a wonder to look at.

I don't want to say any more about the plot than I have, it really isn't easy to explain; it's the sort of film you just have to see. However, don't be thinking it's simply a heartfelt and poignant journey, though it certainly is; and though it may bring a tear to your eye, it is also funny, so much so that if you were sticking on labels, the comedy one would have to be affixed and feature big bold type. It is hysterically funny at times, such as when Bunny begs Stephen for some underwear, Stephen's elaborate cocktails, or the argument in the car.

There really is nothing I can fault the film on. Perhaps one or two moments edge a little closer to gross-out comedy than I would like, the scene with the dogs, for example. However, such moments are generally so hilarious it's hard to see them as a flaw. There isn't a duff performance to be seen on the screen and there's a great soundtrack too, accentuating the moods well, but never outshining the film. They also know when no sound at all is needed. In a wonderfully powerful moment towards the end, the only sound was the whirr of the projector, reminding one that the Cameo is a proper cinema.

In short, this is a truly exceptional film, one of the finest I've seen this year, and I really can't recommend it highly enough. So what put me off initially? Well, Paul King is also the director of The Mighty Boosh, and what little I've seen of that has left me no desire to see more. Now I'm wondering if it deserves a proper viewing.

One final word - stay to the end of the credits - the final dedication is well worth the wait.


Update:

Actually, a final, final word is needed. A film this fine deserves one of our irregular awards. So, without further ado, I present:

The Paul King Award for a Stunning, Meticulously Crafted, Poignant and Hilarious Odyssey through the Imagination

Thinking about it, Joss Whedon deserves this award for Restless, so too do Charlie Kaufman and Michel Gondry for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Monday Night Film Club - A Serious Man (and a pointless film)

I should put my cards on the table at the start: I'm not a fan of the Coen brothers' films. In fact, there's only been one that I've seen which I've really enjoyed, and that was their last one, Burn After Reading, mainly because it was hysterically funny.

The big problems I tend to have are that their films are often not about anything and lack characters I care about. While I did go into this with an open mind, A Serious Man falls down badly on both counts.

It tells the story of Larry Gopnik, a physics lecturer, who suffers an appalling run of bad luck. Now, at this point, I should put a spoiler warnings: I don't think I can review this without giving a way the plot. However, since it doesn't really have one, I don't think this much of a problem.

Of course, it has a plot in one sense: lots of bad things happen to Gopnik and the phalanx of characters surrounding him who aspire to being one dimensional. From all of this, he learns precisely nothing. Nobody in the film really goes on any kind of journey. And it ends, well, it ends mid-story with no real resolution, except to say that everyone's pretty well doomed.

On his way, he seeks advice, which is completely useless, from a series of Rabbis. It's hard to be sympathetic for him, since he does nothing to change his lot. Not only can you see why his wife leaves him, one struggles to imagine what made her marry him in the first place. I mean, he may be a nice enough guy, but there's nothing more to him. Then again, since there's nothing much to her character either, they're arguably a pretty decent match. This is characterisation of the kind of depth that a reasonably comprehensive analysis of everyone in the film could fit comfortably on the back of a single napkin (and still leave ample space to calculate a fair tip).

Of course, when a film isn't convincing you, all the little niggling things you'd otherwise forgive start to stick out like sore thumbs. Now, I realise academia has changed since the time this film was set, but I'm pretty certain that, even then, tenure wasn't on the cards if you'd published nothing. Why does his son still have to run away from the drug dealer after he's stolen the money he needed from his sister? Come to that, a drug dealer who advances credit! And why is Larry's doctor less determined to get hold of him than the man from the Columbia Record Club, especially given he clearly has terrible news.

Apparently, though, I've totally missed the point. This magnificent cinematic achievement is a clever reworking of the Book of Job. Except, of course, that it isn't. Job has a pretty happy ending all told. In other words, it's a moral with the moral removed. Hmmm. Genius!

The film isn't entirely without redeeming features, though. There are some funny moments - the kid who uses the f-work constantly, the man his wife leaves him for and his hideously ingratiating manner, the first Rabbi's belief that salvation can be located in the parking lot, second Rabbi's story about a man who finds a message engraved on someone's teeth. There's also an opportunity for spotting actors who've worked on Aaron Sorkin shows (there's Adam Arkin, who so superbly played Stanley Keyworth, first introduced to the West Wing to treat Josh for post-traumatic stress, here playing Gopnik's lawyer; Simon Helberg, who crops up as the first Rabbi, had much better opportunity to showcase his talents as one of the cast of the show within a show on Studio 60). The performances are solid enough, though playing such uniformly caricatured roles, nobody is in the slightest danger of stretching any acting muscles.

All told, there are many more rewarding ways to spend a couple of hours.

Monday Night Film Club - Should you stare at The Men Who Stare at Goats?

It's been rather too long since my last film review and, indeed, my last visit to the cinema, so it was nice to be back in the Cameo full stop.

When I first saw the poster for The Men Who Stare at Goats, I assumed it was the new Coen brothers movie (the title seemed suitably daft, Bridges and Clooney are both veterans of their films and the typeface isn't a million miles away from that used in the Burn After Reading poster). It's not though, that is A Simple Man which has just opened here. However, it certainly does feel a little like it.

For starters, and I suspect I may offend Coen brothers fans at this point, there isn't terribly much of a plot, or much satisfaction at the end, and there is a general absence of characters I care terribly much about. Ewan McGregor plays Bob, a distinctly second rate journalist whose wife has left him for the editor. He heads to Iraq where he falls in with Lyn (played by George Clooney). Lyn is, it turns out, a Jedi and on a secret mission to rescue his mentor (Bridges) from the clutches of the dark side (led by Spacey). Now, the makers of the film are clearly under the impression that because McGregor played one in the three rubbish Star Wars films, it is therefore hilarious when he says the word Jedi, or when anyone else says it to him. And while it does produce a wry smile the first time round, once we get to the fifteenth one can't help but think this is a script/casting combination that seemed like a really good idea after a few pints in the pub and that the acting talent on display here is somewhat wasted.

It seems that in the 60s the US Army decided it would be a good idea to explore the paranormal, culminating in an attempt to kill a goat simply by looking at it, and thus give the film its title. This all provides for the film's second joke: to make fun of weird and wacky beliefs and hippies in general. And, to be sure, it does this very well: highlights include the disco dancing soldiers, a general attempting, and failing, to phase through a solid wall and Lyn being so distracted by his attempts to burst clouds that he crashes into a rock in the middle of a deserted desert road. However, the trouble is, aside from a lovely moment where they run over an Iraqi whilst protesting he's safe because they're Americans and here to help, it is just these two jokes that sustain the film. That might do in an hour an a half sit-com, but when stretched to ninety minutes, quite a brief film by modern standards, it feels a bit long. It isn't helped by a structure that is very heavily reliant on flashbacks.

None of which is to say it's a terrible film. It's actually rather enjoyable and they're are plenty of laughs, even if they're mainly the same ones. At the end of the day, sit back and stick your mind firmly into neutral. Not unmissable by a long shot, but there are much worse ways to spend an hour a half.

We're told at the start it's based on a true story. I have little difficulty believing that the US and Russia, each afraid the other might be, wasted time and money looking into this hokum, but beyond that..... well, let's just say I don't think the goats have much to worry about.